So I looked at the Bike and it seemed to be looking back at me, inviting me to step on, to ride the smooth grooves of the pavement till I reached a destination that was fitting to the mood that I was in. I watched the clouds roll over this God forsaken rainy city, and that was the final straw. I threw my leg over the huge seat, I started the engine, and bang, we were one, my Harley and I, once again. For some reason when I ride my bike my brain automatically goes into recall mode. It’s not the recollection of the things that I should be doing in order to keep myself from swerving off the road and ending up six feet under, but it is the recollection of songs that I have heard throughout my life, the most prominent of them being, “Woop There It Is.” I just thank God that the brain, while in thought mode, is also in auto-silent mode. Shit. How Bizarre.

As I drop into Osooyoos it feels like a fleet of garden gnomes are taking aim on me with hair dryers… Making my eyes dry up like rotting olives…. At least I think it was the little gnomes, though it could have been that left handed cigarette I powered down at the last rest-stop we stopped at so the girls could powder their noses.

(The one called Betsy)

By the time we reached Osooyoos, things had cleared up considerably, weather wise, and I was fully content with my decision to make the journey to Salmo now. The girls were doing their makeup, or something. I never hear past “we need to use that washroom” because I don’t really give a shit about what they need to do in there. The first part of that statement is all one needs to hear, though the female sex loves to proclaim. They proclaim their love, they proclaim theirs fears, they proclaim their objectives about sex and relationships, and most importantly, they proclaim their need to pee. Whatever. I’m getting bored with thinking about the proclamations, and for waiting for the girls so’s I take off, making a snap-and-point hand signal; a clear gesture signaling that I was outta there, and I thought, “who I am making the hand signal for?” It was a well composed hand signal clearly stating that I was leaving cause I don’t give a ..,but no one was there to see. I thought, “what a damn fucking shame man.” Those moments in time where you just wish someone was there filming your moves. Mehh, Oh well. On the road again.

The first biker I see coming my way I pop the finger gun at and totally redeem myself for that lil misfire with the hand signal to the girls. I decided right then and there that no longer am I a finger-gun man, and that I’m now a power fist man. At least I think that’s what you call the fist with the fingers facing forward.

There is nothing more sensational than riding through British Columbia, Canada in the summertime…except for riding though British Columbia, Canada in the summertime on a Harley Davidson. Motoring though valleys and along highways at a speed that would make my mother and sister choke on their peas, is beyond exhilaration, it is euphoria. I don’t let the song in my head fuck with my mood. I embrace the “woops,” and carry on. The lakes are turquoise, cozied in between mountains that I have referred to with my metal friends before as “power mountains” because when you are with metal dudes everything is power something. The meadows are speckled with those flowers that people call wild, but I don’t get that because what is wild anymore these days? If it lives and grows on a meadow that is owned by somebody, how do you classify that as wild? Whatever. I feel happy, but gay looking at flowers. I speed my bike up and think about the last girl I slept with, and the smell of her hair. I wonder if she made it back to Iceland. How that new job is treating her. I wonder if she still hates me for passing out mid session. Weird ho smells can have that effect on you, how they can bring you back to a specific time and place.
I love the looks I get from people driving beside me. When you are on a bike traveling you get reactions like no others. For one thing, bikers have camaraderie. When we pass one another we make sure to signal to each other. It’s usually a thumbs up, or just a wave, and it means something like: we know “whats up.” Like we get each other. It’s a show of respect, and courtesy amongst bikers. Kinda fucking stupid actually, but at the same time it’s one a those things that lifts the spirits each time it happens. You don’t get that on a car road trip. The next song on a really good play list is the only thing that can come close to giving you that sort of a lift while on a road trip in a car. I prefer to cut into the air ahead of me with my bike and to feel it on my skin.
Speaking of skin FUCK!!! I forgot to put on sunscreen!!! Fuck I need a girlfriend!! I feel like one of the ‘non day walkers’ in that stupid blade movie when they get pushed into the sunlight. Fuck Vampire movies suckballz now a days.
A hot girl in shotgun rides beside me just long enough so I can get a look at her tanned skin and long legs as she hangs her foot out the window, the way people always seem to do when they are on a long journey in a car. She smiles just a little bit at me.
I twist my wrist, and as I pull away I see duder driving catch her smiling, and in my mirror he looks like he just sucked a lemon through a tail pipe. I want to pull up beside him and tell him everything is going to be ok. I want to tell him not to worry, that he should know that she knows that bikers are not the ‘keeper’ types. That bikers are not the ‘take home to Ma and Pa type.’ That bikers are not ‘respectable mates’ and that Audi drivers are. I want to tell him that tattoos, long hair, grease, and beards will never take her to a black tie charity event. That a biker will never raise her twitter clout. I want to tell him leather does not compliment Louis.. I want to tell him you are safe my sweater vested duder. I want to tell him stress kills and jealousy is a cancer. I want to tell him…I’m a DJ! Shit!! I need gas….
I pull into the first gas station I drive by in Bridesville. I fill up and buy 2 liters of gatorade, aloe gel, and a PFD for the river. I head back out to the bike just as an old beat up pickup pulls up to the pump across from mine. The old hippie chick locks on to me, hops outta the truck and marches straight over to me on the bike. “Scoocome sled man!” as she wraps her arms around me. “God Bless U!” I pull out of the station and fly down the highway to the edge of Bridesville and I think to myself what a wonderful town. Should I get married?
It’s been six long, but stimulating hours of riding. My face is dirty, my mouth is dry, my leather vest has a few more wind wrinkles pressed into it. It’s time to get some food somewhere. I pull up to a pub. The place had some seriously killer hanging baskets outside. Shit. Here I am again admiring flowers? Seriously Tyler? Get a fucking hold of yourself.
I ordered fajitas, and the waitress, who wasn’t anything special to look at set my plate down with some gusto. “Anything else you need?” “Nah. I’m good.” I didn’t feel that I was fully sure about that answer, but the way she asked me had me feeling like I needed to tell her that I was good. The fucking pressure; shit. I sat outside and listened in on the old perverts hitting on the so, so looking waitress, and wondered what I would do with my time if I were to live here. Would I be able to make myself happy, or would someone eventually find me tied to a noose in my garage? The one thing about living in a small town like this is that you can afford a lot more toys; but fuck that. I have all the toys I need, and a Harley, so screw this town, I’m so fuckin outta here. I’ll never gorget the old Indian perv’s pick-up line on the waitress, as he sucked down his whiskey and beer… “Eyyeeez can tell by the shapppe uhz your asssss……. UUuuz got a miiiiiiighty fine puuuussssyyzzz!” (Old IndianMan Voice…. First Nations Whatever)
I rode for a few more hours and finally arrived at the most inconspicuous sign for a fifteen thousand-person party that I could ever imagine. I missed it the first time! What the hell? When you have this many folk in the forest partying their lives into the ground, you should have a sign that at least hints at the type of fucked up shit you are about to embark on. I take the turn and the road turns to dust. I thank baby Jesus and his fat little fingers that I turned back for my full-face lid. As soon as I hit Salmo the sun dies for the day and the temperature drops to freezing. The feeling of the cold air on my fresh burn sends a dubious sensation through me. The fucking mosquitoes are almost an inch thick. Not only are they thieving my blood from me, on top of that I am riding blind now. As I send them to a quick death, I hope they slow roast in hell, each one of them.
When I roll up on the first sights of liveliness the dust clears, and I get a bit of a better idea about what I am in for. I’ve lost the girls maybe 1/2 hour behind me, but I will just meet up with them in the line.
I cant find my bloody camp site. My friends left a text saying that it was “to the left of the ferris wheel.” What the fuck kind of directions are those when there is close to fifteen thousand people camping on this enormous fucking property? I cant get a hold of them, there is no service so’s I keep stumbling around looking like a lost chump. “Thanks tool bags,” for the priceless directions.
Ever Slept on a Harley in the pale moon light???

Photo Credits – Quana Parker

D0wntechn0 by djspiltmilk

Spiltmilk-live@whatdafunk-april2011 by djspiltmilk

We’ll See – Longwalkshortdock (Album Version) by Longwalkshortdock

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